


One Golden Afternoon

by Snowgrouse



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Conrad Veidt/Basil Rathbone, German Actor RPF - Fandom, Old Hollywood RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Androgynous male character, Bisexuality, Closeted Character, Closeted Character/Unabashedly Queer Character, Closeted Even To Himself Baz, Established Relationship, Felching, Fellatio, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Homosexual Anal Sex, Implied Rathbone/Dietrich, Liberating Sex, M/M, Massage, Men Being Emotional, Old Hollywood - Freeform, Old Hollywood RPF - Freeform, Old Hollywood RPS, Oral Sex, PWP, Period Attitudes Towards Sexuality and Gender, RPS - Freeform, Repressed Baz, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Tenderness, Unabashedly Bisexual Veidt, Veidtbone - Freeform, flip flop, instafic, lovemaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 19:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19752313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: Connie and Baz spend an entire day just making love. Yes, *making love* and not just fucking, exactly because of how damnable it is; now, there's no explaining it away as a mere release of frustration, a drunken whim or an experiment.No whims, quick strokes or sucks here, no; no alcohol, even. An afternoon in a clean, cosy bedroom in cream fabrics, dark wood: Connie's Hampstead house. A large bed and beside it, cigarettes, snacks and water; so they don't have to leave the bed except for the toilet. A gentle, golden warmth of the summer sunlight, them alone in the house, Connie having absolutely prohibited any stress, nervousness or rushing; hell, again he reminds Baz of a woman the way he's made such an effort with the mood, the environment, the atmosphere."And no Dutch courage before you arrive, either," Connie had meaowed on the phone--Baz could hear his smirk; "I'll be able to tell.""Yes, dear," Baz had huffed, wondering if he should show up with roses just to take the piss.But once Baz arrives (indeed, with roses: he wasn't able to resist), the house is already fragrant with fresh roses; Baz rolls his eyes as Connie gives him a wonky-toothed grin and panther-pounces him at the door.





	One Golden Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> Another quick and cheerful Veidtbone instafic to celebrate the 7th anniversary of yours truly having had her soul swallowed by Herr Veidt. Again, it's not as polished or plotty or as long as my other fics, but I hope it gives the reader the warm fuzzies--enjoy :)

Connie and Baz spend an entire day just making love. Yes, just that: _making love_ and not just fucking, exactly because of how damnable it is; because there's no explaining it away as a mere release of frustration, a mere drunken whim or an experiment.

No whims, no quick strokes or sucks here, no; no alcohol, even. An entire afternoon in a clean, comfortable bedroom in cream fabrics and dark wood: Connie's house in Hampstead. A large bed and beside it, a box full of cigarettes and beside it, a few snacks, water; so that they don't have to leave the bed except for the bathroom. A gentle, golden warmth brought by the summer sunlight, with just them alone in the house and no one else. Connie having absolutely prohibited any kind of stress, nervousness or rushing; hell, once again, he reminds Baz of a woman because of the way he has made such an effort with the mood, the environment, the atmosphere.

"And no Dutch courage before you arrive, either," Connie had meaowed on the phone, and Baz could hear his smirk; "I will be able to tell."

"Yes, dear," Baz had huffed, wondering if he should show up with a bunch of roses just to take the piss.

But once Baz arrives (indeed, with roses: he wasn't able to resist), the house is already fragrant with freshly cut roses, and Baz rolls his eyes as Connie just gives him a wonky-toothed grin and panther-pounces him the moment he's stepped through the door.

But, afterwards... slowness. Once that first, furious pounce is over--Connie fellating Baz first to help him with his nerves--an entire change of pace.

Of course, it should make Baz even more nervous that Connie is the one who hasn't come yet. Connie has taken him once in the past, but it was drunken and stupid and uncomfortable for Baz, and he hadn't come; Connie was too drunk to come himself, and it may well be that this entire day is Connie's way of making up for that.

That would explain a lot: Connie puts so much effort into pleasuring Baz, into making love to his entire body, the way a considerate man makes love to a woman who's nervous and fears pain; a woman who has only had bad experiences before.

It's exactly the opposite of the tales Baz has heard so many times: of those unlucky men who, once they'd let other men take them like women, had suddenly become repulsive in their takers' eyes for their submissiveness, no matter how persistently the men on top had been chasing their arses just hours earlier. Once you bend over, you can kiss goodbye to your dignity, and that's why only the most deeply homosexual, only the most deeply effeminate men yield; that's why so many prefer to suck and stroke each other off rather than risk a fuck. It's a stupid game, but Baz cannot honestly say he hasn't felt that way with a woman: after all, it's not different from the bitterness and distaste following the conquest of a certain kind of woman once the thrill of the chase is gone.

But Connie is nothing like that, not at all a hypocrite, despising double standards and self-deceptions of all kinds: when it comes to matters concerning love and sex, he's completely and utterly unlike any other man Baz has ever known. Not only has he never cared to hide the fact that he enjoys both women and men, but he's always been honest about enjoying being both the taker and the one taken, too. And there's nothing weak or pathetic to his yielding, either; even his feminine side is powerful and confident, truly relishing the pleasure of being fucked, his voracious enjoyment of it rendering him stronger, if anything--in this, too, he reminds Baz of Marlene, in that even as he opens his legs to you, you're the one being taken, seduced. He's never not both masculine and feminine at the same time, never not--spiritually, if not physically--the strongest man Baz has ever known, somehow commanding respect even while wearing a pair of silk knickers!

Pretty much everyone Baz has ever had bad sex with--hell, nearly all the friends he's ended up having sex with--has disappeared from his life, just as he's disappeared from theirs, out of sheer awkwardness and because things had just got too complicated. The only exceptions have been the few women he's truly loved to the point where he'd made an effort to overcome himself and everything else that'd stood in the way of their love. Them, and those women who have been far too proud, far too aware of their own worth to ever even _consider_ being embarrassed by anything; women who would never have allowed a man's insecurities to dictate the nature of their relationship.

Marlene and Connie are the same in that, too, having both turned a blind eye to Baz's flaws, both of them such strong, driven people that in their company, Baz could always let go of his own anxieties and let _them_ do the driving, as it were. Not only that, but they'd also both made explicitly clear that they had recognised in him--even underneath all his neuroses--a man with a high capacity for romanticism, soulfulness and pleasure; that they befriended him and loved him for romance, soulfulness and pleasure; and that in their company, Baz had better throw himself into a true, robust, shameless enjoyment of all three--or _else._

Both of them, in their own ways, exact such respect from Baz, leave him in such awe all the time that frankly, he'd rather die than let either of them down through his own cowardice.

Connie deserves better, and just like with Marlene, Baz consciously pushes himself to perform better in Connie's company, strives to be that romantic hero they both see in him, a man better than his true, sorry self. It's like acting, really, like playing a role--

But all such thoughts scatter from his mind when Connie _really_ goes to work on him. No blowjob of Connie's is ever an ordinary blowjob--everything he does is so very determinedly The Veidt Version of whatever he is doing--and no matter how hard Baz tries to hold back, that damned devil mouth and those damned devil eyes conspire to unravel him in but moments. Oh, but he hates how well Connie has calculated this date, or whatever the hell is today supposed to be, anyway? This nefarious masterplan of his, like one out of his hideous attempts at horror stories?

But Baz, of course, enjoys it far too much to stop. What the hell. Let Connie chuckle in triumph around his cock; let him have his little victory laugh when Baz empties himself in his mouth, naked on his bed and completely undone in under five minutes from his arrival.

But that's just the beginning: for now, Connie flips Baz over onto his belly and begins to massage him. At first, Baz just laughs in disbelief--he's too breathless from his orgasm to form words; but after a few moments, Baz realises that this isn't just some joke on Connie' part: he really, truly is massaging him properly.

And Baz's first thought, after his surprise, is embarrassment: is _that_ how tense he looks, even after he's just spent himself in Connie's mouth?

"Turn around," Connie says. "Lift up a bit."

Baz does, and as he sees Connie holding towels and a bottle of baby oil, he just bursts out laughing. "You're joking."

"I am not," Connie says and slaps him on the arse with one of the towels. "Spread these out, then spread yourself out."

"Subtle," Baz mumbles into his arms after Connie has arranged him neatly onto the towels.

"It's not meant to be," Connie grins and unceremoniously, straddles Baz's hips, digging his giant hands into Baz's shoulders with such a hard crunch that Baz moans. "I reassure you, my friend, that it's a perfectly honest plan to," and he leans down to purr in Baz's ear in his most outrageous voice, his accent rendering his words even more ridiculous, "drive you absolutely wild with wanton desire."

 _Shame it's not a dark and stormy night,_ Baz wants to quip, but then Connie's hands are doing _things_ to his body and Connie's warm, naked weight takes him and he lets it; lets himself be swallowed by the pleasure Connie is now giving him.

About a quarter of an hour later, Connie has massaged him into full relaxation, back and front, and has slipped down to lick his arse--just like that!--and Baz is practically weeping, sobbing dry into the now-stained towels, too boneless to even clutch at them. Ever since Connie had--swiftly and skillfully--shorn Baz of all hair down there, massaging his groin, balls, perineum as he went, Baz has been even harder than he was when Connie had been sucking him, which he didn't even think was possible. But this feels so amazing, Connie pushing his need to such heights that he's desperate for Connie to do _something_ else, something more: hell, _anything_ is preferable to this torture he's now inflicting upon Baz with his tongue.

"Please," Baz pants. "Besides, your nefarious plan to relax me has failed disastrously, my friend: as you can see, I'm no longer relaxed!" he moans. "You're giving me a heart attack!"

"Has no one ever kissed you here before?"

"Well... well, not really. Not like that. But almost." As in, there'd been a brief kiss from Marlene when she'd made a point of kissing his entire body all over, but that had been in passing; she'd used her fingers instead, and had set out to give him the best blowjob of his life. Well, the best until he'd met Connie, that is. "She was from your neck of the woods, too, as it happens. What the _hell_ is it about you Berliners?!"

"Marlene?" Connie says casually as he flips Baz onto his back and lifts up Baz's legs, folding them against his body. "I'm sure that whatever it was, she learned it from me," he grins shamelessly. "Hold these up for me, will you?"

Baz takes his legs but shakes his head. "Braggart. And no more teasing. I beg of you."

"I made a promise to myself, my friend," Connie murmurs as he dives between his buttocks once more--and the sight of his face, _those eyes_ between his legs as his tongue dips into his _arse_ \--Baz is beyond all pretense of dignity, now, whimpering, his stomach undulating so that he might as well be bellydancing.

"What promise? To torture me? Look, I am begging already!"

"You should see yourself," Connie sighs, spreading his arse with his hands before he delivers it another deep tongue-kiss.

"Connie--" but Baz's voice trails off and his toes curl into knots.

Because now, each lick of Connie's tongue is a lash of blinding, maddening pleasure whipping into his body; how ridiculously deep can those ripples even reach, from such a small area? His cock never does this, the pleasure-nerves of it spread out more evenly over a larger area, but this jolt he feels at each of Connie's flicks on his arse--oh, this _has_ to be the male equivalent of the nerve-clusters of the clitoris, he sputters inside. And it's ridiculous, considering how he's been fingered and fucked, but never has it felt this amazing. Is this all because he is now sober? he wonders. Whatever the reason, he never, ever could have guessed it was possible for his body to experience anything like this down there.

But he can't take it any longer: it truly is maddening, the inner squirming it gives him like a tickle multiplied a thousandfold, and he wants something more. There's only one thing he can say to Connie, now, only one thing he wants, and he can't not say it, no matter how stupid it may sound of him.

"Take me."

Finally, with a wistful little smile, Connie relents, slicks himself up and _does._

And Baz has never come while being taken before, hasn't even been able to remain hard while being taken before. No, no: he has never felt this amazing while being taken, crying out helplessly at how good it feels, so good it's half pain, pain flipping over into pleasure again. All those stupid drunken fumbles at school, those desperate gropes in the trenches, all those times he'd just felt used--and this, _this_ is how good being taken can feel? He's been lied to all his life. He is just sobbing, now, unable to even hold his legs up anymore, Connie just gathering him to himself and taking him into his love.

And each one of Connie's strokes strikes ripples of pleasure through not just his hips, or his genitals. No, no: now, the ripples course through his _entire body_ now that Connie has opened him up, opened him for his love to flow: like a heavy stone cast into a deep, still pond, the ripples not only spreading out upon the surface but deep, deep, fathomlessly deep into all that he is, flesh and soul.

Even with the best of lovers, the waves of his pleasure have rarely been in time with theirs; he's always had to wait for women, to try and pace himself, and then enjoy the sight and feel of them unfolding and rippling around him, _between_ his thrusts. But now, Connie's thrusts _are_ the pleasure and the ripples, the impact of his cock and his hips what sets those waves in motion, Connie the one driving ecstasy through his body with every blow.

Yet it is then that Connie says something strange.

"Come," he whispers, "Let go," he says, as if Baz wasn't relaxed enough.

And this hurts Baz, wounds him to the quick--to be told he isn't relaxing enough at a moment like this, when he had been sinking into complete, perfect relaxation and love.

"I was doing that," he snaps, his mood now blackened, and finally he understands women's mood swings during sex, of how deeply one miscalculated word, one misunderstanding can hurt when you are opening your body to another, enjoying yourself perfectly, loving perfectly--and then realise the other doesn't see it quite the same way.

But Connie realises his mistake immediately--after all, how many men must he have lain underneath? "I'm sorry," he says, and the way he stills, the way his eyes now fill with a terrible grief--oh, but it's _awful_ to look at.

"I'm only going to say this once, you stupid bastard," Baz says and looks into Connie's eyes, cupping the back of Connie's neck, his hand slipping in its sweat. "It's never felt this good, with anyone," he snaps out the words clumsily, technically, harshly; perhaps to wound Connie for his indiscretion, to twist the knife a little--oh, again Baz finds himself thinking like a woman, and this is madness. "And I hate you for it, but I'm also going to kill you if you stop."

Connie but laughs at that, a little melancholy laugh. Now, clearly to apologise, he begins to roll his hips, roll them so deep that he bends Baz double; he's even hurting him a little, perhaps deliberately to make a point in turn, just as Baz had done to him with his words.

"Ask me nicely," Connie says, playful: but there is a deeper need behind this question, a desperate need to know he is wanted still, that all of this has not been in vain.

And Baz knows that in this moment, he is this close to breaking Connie's heart, this close to turning this, too, into one of those mistakes of friend-fucks which should've never happened, another disaster after which they will never see each other again.

He looks into Connie's eyes and relaxes his body entirely, with a great shudder and a sigh, and the softest smile he can manage.

"Please," he says, leaving a pause for emphasis, "make love to me, you idiot."

Connie's laughter is so loud, so abrupt, so hacking it scares off the pigeons who'd been cooing on the windowsill outside.

He panther-pounces Baz as much as it's possible to panther-pounce a man you're balls-deep inside of. Still laughing, their teeth and noses clashing, Connie sets out to do just that: make love to Baz.

And indeed, it's that afternoon upon which Baz learns what it's like to come while being taken: howling, deep, spine-searing, splashing wet orgasms making a mess on their bellies, and half a dozen dry orgasms besides.

Because like hell is Connie going to leave it at just one suck and fuck: he truly does fulfill his promise of driving Baz wild with desire--himself taking care of the wanton part. The towels and most of the pillows end up on the floor as they take turns ravishing each other for hours and hours: hard and fast and slow and sweet, from the roughestmost of ruts to the laziest, languidmost of sixty-nines.

And all throughout this, present one hundred per cent: Connie's _body_. His weight, his heat, the feel of his skin against Baz's. That's the most perverse thing of all, for men used to homosexual encounters that usually involve only the cock and whatever body part of the other man ends up pleasuring it: that Connie now awakens in Baz the audacity, the outrageousness of full physical and emotional contact in addition to the merely genital. That they stare into each other's eyes while fucking--Connie always so devastatingly, terrifyingly good at capturing one's gaze with his; that they kiss with open mouths during, that skin meets skin as much as possible. That even as Connie rides his cock, facing away from him to maximise pleasure for them both, Baz is lost in adoring those wide hips of his just as he'd admire a woman's, his fingers trembling upon them even as Connie bends his cock so sweetly he sees stars.

That they love just as a pair of newlyweds would: not leaving each other's company for a moment longer than necessary. Connie even follows Baz into the toilet--saying he simply could not resist following such a perfect arse, wherever it went--and swallows his cock when he's barely finished pissing. Something most women would never be perverse enough to do, yet delivered with a tenderness altogether feminine. Oh, but the sight of Connie's long, black lashes falling sharp to his cheeks as he takes in Baz's taste--oil, sperm, piss, his own arse, like holy communion--will remain burned into Baz's memory until his dying day.

Even when they are both too soft and spent to fuck, Connie is still determined to drive Baz into utter exhaustion by rimming him, fingering him and mouthing him: if there is indeed anything left in Baz's balls and glands for him to milk out, he most certainly is swallowing every last drop. Deliriously, he thinks of that lurid story he'd heard about Crowley--possibly from Connie in the first place?--of a sexual rite where he'd supposedly reached a trance state through erotic exhaustion: women and men manipulating and taking him until he was so overloaded and exhausted that he began to receive visions from other dimensions, from angelic beings. Baz doesn't doubt it, now, and wonders if Connie has ever been involved in such a cult: he really wouldn't put it past him, or him being half incubus or some other kind of sexual ghoul. Or an angelic being himself, really.

They only pull some clothes on when it's evening, sitting in the garden to cool themselves down after a shared, hot shower; only then does Connie allow them a cold beer each. They speak little: there is no need. Rather, Baz takes great delight in Connie sitting uneasily; he _did_ give Connie's arse a good smacking while ramming into him from behind, and the ramming should make him unable to forget him for the next few days at least.

Yet the twinkle in Connie's eye tells Baz that that shower might have been in vain. _Oh, Lord,_ he winces inwardly, his sore prick twitching as Connie licks the ring of beer-foam from around his lips the _exact_ same way he'd licked the sperm from his lips after having sucked it out of Baz's arse. Another sight Baz will take to his grave, he reckons; but there is enough perversity in him to but smile at the fact.

And he was right: the clothes do come off again, and this time, he and Connie fall into a rhythm much more relaxed, much slower. Slow sucking, spooning as the sun sets, painting the room a rosy red; a whispered, laughing "Yes" from Baz over his shoulder as Connie asks him if he wants to stay the night. And a happy sigh and a tight squeeze of Connie's arms around him at that.

This time, heavy coatings of cream are necessary to make sex even possible, both of them so sore they know they will hurt like hell for the rest of the week, but neither cares. The only true strain in their bodies is at the time of climax: this time, they trigger each other's, fall into each other's, perfectly in time. This time, Baz is so open, all of him flowing towards Connie, all of him beckoning for Connie to move into him deeper, harder--oh, if only he could swallow Connie inside of his body--that it all just happens naturally to him, with no effort on his part whatsoever. He opens, unfolds, uncurls in pleasure and wraps Connie in his; he clutches Connie with trembling limbs, and Connie crashes into him like waves onto rocks, like the waves of a great warm sea.

They fall asleep underneath the same blanket; Baz gets up to piss in the middle of the night, hissing from how much it stings, but he only has himself to blame. At least when he curls up against Connie again, he can use him as a hot water bottle.

In fact, he decides to do exactly that and needs not awaken again that night: both of them are so utterly exhausted they sleep well into the morning.

***

The End

***


End file.
